


Angel on Fire

by musiclvr1112



Series: Friends to Lovers AU [6]
Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Crying, Destruction, F/M, Lack of inspiration, Panic Attack, Sad, emotional breakdown, nathanael is not coping well, tortured artist, violent impulses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-30
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2018-12-08 19:21:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11653062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musiclvr1112/pseuds/musiclvr1112
Summary: Based off the songAngel on Fireby Halsey.cw: anxiety attack, emotional breakdown





	Angel on Fire

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to read this as a oneshot on its own~  
> If you're reading the series, takes place after "Coming Out" and immediately before "Stress Baking 1.0"

“Hey nerd, I’m hungry, want to go—!” Chloé cut herself off with a gasp as she stepped foot in the studio.

Up until that point, she had been leading a fairly normal day. She had gotten up at 5 am, read the paper as she ate her bowl of oatmeal with some fresh fruit, and was showered and out the door with a cup of coffee in her hand by 6. She had gotten to the hotel a mere ten minutes later and had spent the day manning the front desk, checking in with various staff, sneaking out of sight for a few minutes to fight an akuma, seeing to the progress of the conduct training program, etc. etc. Perfectly normal day for Chloé Bourgeois.

It was around 5 pm when her stomach had growled, signaling that it was time to retire for the day. Stepping out of the hotel, she was delightfully surprised when her daily glance at Nathanaël’s art studio had shown the windows to be lit up with movement inside. She smiled and went to cross the street then, excited to see the artist at work once again. He had been so heartbreakingly lost for months; even the slightest bit of artistic inspiration would be cause to celebrate.

But the view that opened up to her upon stepping through the door of the studio was not one of the red headed artist focused and inspired working on his next masterpiece.

It was a view of the tormented red head covered in chaotic splatters of paint using his brush to violently throw paint at the canvas in front of him with a mixture of a grunt and a scream of agony.

He paid her no mind and continued whipping orange and red paint at the canvas, a brush in each hand. The picture in front of him—though covered in red and orange now—looked to have started its life as something completely different, though she couldn’t tell what.

“Nath? What are you doing?”

He didn’t so much as look at her. “What does it look like I’m doing?” he growled through gritted teeth. “I’m splatter painting.” She flinched as he picked up a third brush with some yellow on it and violently threw a slash across the painting. She couldn’t help but notice that the particular mixture of color—set on the dark grey of whatever the painting had been before—somewhat resembled fire.

“W-Why?” she asked, trying to hide how frightened she was. Chloé was not one to be frightened easily these days, but never had she seen the artist burning with such pure _anger_ —not even when he was akumatized. His features were twisted into a sickened grimace and he looked like he was straining every single muscle in his body as he mercilessly attacked the canvas. It was terrifying.

“Because the fumes from the paint would be toxic if I _actually_ burned it.”

“What? Why would you burn—!?” She gasped and stumbled back a step as he suddenly threw the actual paint brush at the canvas, nearly knocking it off the easel.

“Because it’s terrible!!” She flinched back even further as he threw the other paint brush—much harder this time—and _did_ knock over the painting. That was when she realized there were already tears on his cheeks and more quickly joining them.

“N-Nath—,” she whispered, not sure what she could even say in that moment. But he cut her off anyway.

“It’s not getting better, Chloé!” he yelled, ragged pain clearly audible in his voice. He threw the easel to the ground then and proceeded to swipe all the supplies on the desk behind it off. Some bottles shattered as they hit the floor, spraying glass and various colors of ink everywhere. “Nothing I do helps! I’ve tried painting and—,” he kicked a nearby paint can, knocking it over and spilling purple paint across the floor, “—nothing! I’ve tried water colors—,” he crossed to a table littered with various pages, each one displaying a variety of brightly colored scenes, “and _nothing_!” He picked up a few of the pages and tore them apart, throwing them on the ground, and then smacked a cup of murky water, soaking what was left of his art on the table. Then he paced over to a shelf on the wall where he had a few bowls and vases sitting. “I tried pottery and it’s _crap_ ,” he yelled, taking a vase from the shelf and throwing it on the ground. It shattered, scattering jagged shards of porcelain around him. They crunched under his shoes as he went to the one supply table he had yet to destroy. He called off the various art supplies as he picked them up and threw them about the room. “Oil pastels, spray paint, colored pencils, charcoal, graphic pens, crayons, sharpies, **_nothing_**!” After systematically ridding the table of all of its supplies, he flipped the whole thing, sending it crashing to the ground in front of him. “Even my guitar wouldn’t let me play it,” he cried, volume diminishing as he crumpled in on himself. “I picked it up and it just _refused_ as if it’s angry with me,” his head fell into his hands, taking up fistfuls of his hair, “as if I offended it and it won’t forgive me and I don’t know how to apologize because I don’t even know what I did _wrong_.”

He broke down then, dropping to his knees with his back to her and quietly crying in the middle of the destroyed studio. Surrounded by wreckage, the uninspired artist curled in on himself, burying his head in his knees and shaking with sobs. The echo of his soft whimpers was all that could be heard in the desolate ruins.

The clicking of heel against tile resounded throughout the room as she slowly approached, kneeling down behind him. She wanted to say something— _anything_ —to make him feel better, but when she opened her mouth, there was nothing. And she knew that was the truth of the matter. That there was nothing she could do to help. Absolutely nothing.

So Chloé sat down on the ground with him and got comfortable. She placed one hand on his back and rubbed it in steady circles, something her mother used to do for her when she was young. As expected, he didn’t react, but she didn’t care. He could take as long as he needed to cry. She would stay there all night.


End file.
